


Bigbad

by Darevskia (Phrynosoma)



Series: Asexual Folktales [2]
Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Fairy Tale Retellings, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrynosoma/pseuds/Darevskia
Summary: what big eyes you have!all the better to see me with, my dear





	Bigbad

Once I saw a young woman in the woods, picking flowers with childish abandon. A basket lay nearby, and I could smell the good things inside of it, for my nose is nearly as sharp as my teeth- all the better to smell you with. 

There is an old woman in these woods. She lives alone in a cottage, nearly a day’s walk on two legs from the nearest neighbor. It’s a shame, really, that nobody lives close enough to hear if she had trouble- but then, maybe trouble is what she’s avoiding. She’s old, after all, but trouble comes for anyone. Trouble doesn’t always care who you are or what you look like.

The girl has eyes like saucers and she trusts too easily. Harden your heart, girl- there’s wolves in the woods and they’re not like me. 

The old woman has a daughter but no husband. Her daughter has a daughter, but neither has a father. They’re wolf-girls, the two of them, girls chewed on and chewed up and chewed out. Girls who have been fed upon and are now just fed up. The girl hasn't been bitten yet. I'm not going to be the one to do it, despite what's been said about me, and about her, and about her family.

There’s a reason they live in the woods, and it’s wolves. Why is it when a man bares his teeth in a sharp smile and offers honeyed words he doesn’t mean, just to get his way, we call him a dog, or a tomcat? Soft, domestic things. Laughable, harmless. Harmless until they’re not.

And then we call them wolves and I understand this, because to them, wolf means predator- but I can’t help feeling a sharp pain when I hear it.

Because I am not a wolf.

I look like a wolf, but nobody has ever asked me how I feel about it. I don’t want to eat anyone. Not little girls, not old ladies. Everybody looks at me and thinks they can see the flavour of my desire- but it’s not there, it never was.

I look away from them all, slinking back into the forest. 

I am not a wolf. Never was, never will be. People think I am, they want me to be, they assume I am. Why haven’t you eaten any old ladies? Young ladies? Even if girls aren’t your taste, there’s plenty of young men out there that could be devoured. 

I don’t want to eat anybody. I am not a wolf.

I hide myself in the junipers, but not soon enough. She sees me and I see her, and we both freeze, caught in each others’ eyes. The ripe plum of her mouth forms a silent ‘o,’ and she covers herself with her cloak, which looks like blood against her fair skin. Tempting for a wolf, I suppose. Those doe eyes don’t blink, not even once, but tears form in them, welling and looking to spill over. She doesn’t move, caught in my headlights. She’s waiting, anticipating. Not even trying to run. She’s been told that wolves will eat her right up. Maybe she knows someone who got eaten, or heard of someone who got eaten. She knows what wolves are and what she is and what’s supposed to happen, and I hate myself for it, just a little, because I feel wrong for not wanting to eat her. 

I have big eyes with which to see you. Big ears with which to hear you. Big teeth with which to devour you. I have four paws and a tail and I’m wild as can be. But I’m not a wolf.

I stare at the girl, imagining for a brief moment how she might taste. I envision her screaming under me as I gorge myself, then the screams stopping as I reach her throat. The thought is repulsive, even though wolves are supposed to eat people. 

I am not a wolf.

I turn and flee into the forest. I don’t eat the girl. I don’t speak to her with sickly sweet words, I don’t follow her to her grandmother’s house or her own home. I don’t plan to step into her skin or pick her bones. Instead I step away from this setup- and maybe it is a setup, because my parents are wolves and wolves have wolf cubs, and it’s got to be hard for them to have a child who isn’t a wolf. I step away from it, because the girl and her flowers represent choices and events that I don't want to unfold, because those are things a wolf would do and I am not a wolf.

I know that’s true. Maybe if I say it enough, everyone else will believe me. 

I am not a wolf.


End file.
